Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

T he tears were real, but they did not signify weakness.

Indeed, they'd proved a useful excuse for Selina to slip out of the room to compose herself. If she could locate His Grace's library, perhaps she'd find more paper to furnish Edward with the drawing of His Grace that was needed to shore up Edward's reputation and consequently their fortunes.

With a rapidly beating heart, Selina quietly turned the doorknob to the second room on the right. This, she had gleaned in casual conversation, was an annexe that led off the library.

Raising her candle high, she surveyed the room.All she needed was one sheet. Two would be preferable, but if Lord Chauncy had writing implements laid out on his desk, he'd surely not notice the absence of one sheet?

To her relief, not only had his lordship laid out writing implements, he'd set aside four sheets of paper for the correspondence he'd just begun.

Selina hurried across to the desk and glanced at the letter.

"Dear Sir Simeon,

I write to you with regard to Lady Rushworth's ball on August 14.

Rest assured that the plan to identify the three men currently under suspicion?—"

Selina felt a momentary pang. How wonderful it would be to attend an event such as Lady Rushworth's ball. Had Selina not been so impetuous and instead married a man of whom her parents approved, she might well have.

She could have made a fine marriage with ‘Lady' prefixing her name without having to pretend. She could have had a wardrobe finer than Lady Saunders' or Mrs. Piggott's.

But it was too late for regrets. She'd made her bed… And right now, time was of the essence.

So, taking the two sheets of paper below the letter in progress, Selina carefully rolled them up and tucked them into her reticule before turning back to the door.

She would have been gone less than three minutes. No one would remark upon her absence or, hopefully, miss the paper.

Tomorrow, she would hide herself in the shrubs beside the conservatory, execute a hasty sketch of Lord Chauncy, finish the finer details that evening, and then the following morning, Edward could present his perfect likeness to his Grace.

Lord Chauncy would be delighted, Edward would be mollified—though of course he should be delighted, also—and Selina would be…

Well, Selina would simply return home to take up the mantle of scandalous widow, pestering Edward to take her with him whenever he had a sketch to execute.

"Is anyone there?"

Horrified to see the doorknob turn, Selina blew out the candle and froze in the center of the room.

Although the curtains had not been fully drawn, the moon was under a cloud and in the inky darkness she could not see whoever approached, though she could hear the stealthy tread across the carpet and the faint protest of a floorboard.

But she had been in this situation before. Hiding. She knew what to do.

So, she regulated her breathing as best she could. Soft and shallow. He wouldn't hear her; for she knew it was a man.

And she knew exactly which man it was. She could smell the sandalwood and citrus overtones unique to Lord Chauncy and which she'd noted when she first met him. Selina's senses were highly attuned to a handsome man.

Just as Lord Chauncy's senses seemed attuned to a foreign presence in the room.

Yet he said nothing as he advanced slowly, stopping when he was within a hair's breadth of Selina. She could hear his breathing now. Louder than hers. She could feel the faint tickle of his breath against the top of her head.

Selina swallowed. She would not run and she would not declare herself. Perhaps His Grace would simply turn about and leave the room.

It was possible.

But of course, it was improbable. He knew someone was in his study and he would investigate.

In a moment, she would be exposed. Embarrassed, humiliated, and no doubt lambasted when he learned that she'd stolen from their host. He might even order Edward to leave his home, with Selina in tow.

Selina had heard that his Lordship had a volatile temper on occasion.

But he would decide.

So she waited.

Tensing, she felt his hand brush across the top of her head before it contoured her cheek.

Slowly.

Exploring.

With interest.

She drew in her breath, about to swat his hand away in indignation.

Until it touched her breast.

Now she did gasp.

But she did not move.

In the inky darkness, he had no more idea what part of her he was touching than she had of anything.

She only knew that the brush of his hand upon the swell of flesh above her bodice created an extraordinary sensory delight that communicated itself to the core of her being.

Why, she hadn't been touched since Samuel had died; and their last exchanges had not been full of loving anticipation.

She bent slightly to increase the contact, not caring that her breathing was louder and more labored. That it communicated her enjoyment.

But despite her slight shift in position, she remained still.

And he remained standing slightly away from her. An alien being in the darkness with a touch that seemed to infuse her parched soul with the lifeblood it had lacked these long years of widowhood.

And then suddenly she was alone.

His hands no longer roamed, and she felt his withdrawal like an icy chill across her skin, leaving her yearning for an intimacy that was now a distant memory.

He stepped back; the floorboard registering his shift in weight.

Selina didn't move. She barely dared breathe.

But she felt devastation as his soft tread towards the door indicated that his exploration was at an end.

When the door clicked shut, Selina slowly exhaled.

After another minute had passed, she drew in one long, sustaining lungful of air, pushed her shoulders back, and forced courage into her return to the drawing room.

The warmth and chatter hit her like something physical as she entered, but no one registered her return.

She wove amongst the furniture, past Lord Chauncy's chair, to find her own.

He did not look up from his conversation with Lord Saunders.

And as Selina joined a desultory conversation between her brother and Mr. and Mrs. Piggott, she noted that Lord Chauncy did not glance in her direction for even a moment.

It was as if the episode in his study had been a mere figment of her imagination.